2007-03-10: For Want Of A Competent Electrician


Identity_icon.gif Richard_icon.gif

Date It Happened: March 10, 2007

Summary: An unpleasant reunion.

For Want Of A Competent Electrician

Club DNA

There was something about the club that struck Richard's interest, although he couldn't tell you why; perhaps it's the theme. In any case, he's found himself perched on the arm of a green chair up on the balcony level, one elbow resting against the curved metal rail as he watches the dancing going on below, a glass of beer in his hand sipped casually as he observes that mass of people - ever-shifting, ever-moving, like some giant living fractal.

Identity enters the club wearing a paid of amber lensed shades. She doesn't bother taking them off once inside. They're a fashion statement, not a sun blocker. She moves up to the rail on the balcony level to look down on the masses of gyrating bodies below. She makes no move to head down there to join them. Instead, she sips a bottle of water in her hand, and watches from above, like she's waiting for a weak one to pull itself away from the herd to be culled.

Richard might be out there on the dance floor (although it's unlikely - at heart, he's still kind of a geek, and nightclub dancing is not something he did a lot of when younger) but he's still got bandages across his back, about half-healed up. It stings from time to time, but pain— now that's something he's used to. As he takes a sip of his beer, he glances down the balcony… and then he does a spit-take. Down on the dance floor, some folk get a shower of beer droplets, though they probably don't notice.

Isn't he charming and couth?

Identity notes the movement out of the corner of her eyes. She's bored. Her attention follows the spitting man and she glances at him briefly, one dark brow arched as if to suggest she's thinking how suave he is for spitting beer over the rail in a club, choking on his beer losing aaall his cool points. It's funny, though. She looks right at him but doesn't seem to place the face. Probably because she only looks at his _face_ briefly. Most of her attention goes lower. Then she looks over the rail again. No one notices the beer spray. She shakes her head slightly, sips her drink.

As there's a failure of recognition on her part, at least evident, Richard's expression turns mildly uncertain when she looks away; recovering the beer in his cup, he leans wayyyy back on the arm of the chair where he's perched and sets it down upon a table before sliding off to his feet, moving to approach her with that casual hey-there-babe saunter all too common to clubs like this.

Identity really doesn't seem to recognize him. Her attention is on the crowd below, well, not really, but it looks like that's where it is. She sips her drink, she watches the people. And she peripherally is aware someone is approaching. The brunette straightens, and rests a hand on the rail. She does not turn. She lets the male do the work.

"Hi there," Richard notes casually as he steps along over, one hand resting upon the rail as well in a slight lean to one side; doing his best to keep up that whole flirtation act with a smile curving to his lips, "I figured, what the hell, couldn't embarass myself any more than you've already seen, so figured I'd come over and say hello…"

"Move along, junior." Identity doesn't even look over, tone dry. Boy, she's friendly. Bet she comes to bars to abuse the patrons! Her eyes lid a little more heavily as she notices a slight disturbance below. "Yeah. These are nice boots. But the answer? Is no."

Oh, now there's a more familiar attitude. "Well, somebody's in a mood," he observes, stepping casually along closer to where she's standing and tilting his head as if to look after her eyes to the dance floor below, "Bad day, hot stuff?"

Identity glances briefly toward the ceiling as Richard persists. Usually they call her a bitch and leave by now. Hm. "I'm always in this mood." The reply is low, barely audible. She reaches up to brush her hair out of her eyes, and turns to face the man who just wont take the hint. "What do you want?"

"Oh, just what every man wants," Richard replies with a lopsided smile curving to his lips, leaning in ever so slightly as she turns towards him, brows raising, "A million dollar bank account, the heads of everyone who ever offended me lined up on a mantlepiece, and a beautiful woman in my bed. What do -you- want?"

Identity's eyes finally focus on Richard. She stares at him for several beats. "A four thousand dollar, hand crafted, one of a kind switchblade made by a swiss artist with a two year waiting list. Why are you talking to me?" Her eyes narrow slightly, and she steps in closer.

"Really? Because…" A half-step closer brings them dangerously near to one another, and Richard's head drops down just that much closer— to an almost intimate proximity, his voice low and twisted with a hint of amusement, "…I would've thought you'd want a competent electrician."

That clearly sends Id's mind for a little loop. She scowls, and shakes her head slightly, the 'what?' written in her dark eyes. Obviously she's just come to the conclusion that he's a nutjob. But then, then it clicks, and in a rush she realizes just where she's seen this guy before. A hand comes up, headed right for his throat.

Of course, Richard was rather expecting that reaction… and yet, she still manages to strike, although he rolls with the blow enough that it'll just leave a bruise across the side of his neck instead of crushing his trachea, stumbling back a few quick steps, one hand still on the rail. He crouches slightly, tensing, a smirk twisting to his lips as his other hand rubs at his neck, "…now, now. Temper… look at all the witnesses around."

Id's drink sloshes a little, she tosses her hair out of her eyes, and brings it to her lips to take a final sip of the bottle before she caps it. "Witnesses? That's funny. Did you practice that?" She gestures with the capped bottle. "Stop hitting on me. I'm not in the mood."

"That's funny, I didn't think that people like us were in the habit of caring what mood anyone else was in," observes Richard in dry tones; fingers rubbing against the spot where her hand came so very close to doing some serious damage, chin lifting a bit, "Nice reflexes, though."

Identity nods slightly. "Yes." She leans against the rail, an arm resting on it. She doesn't appear to be drawing down or calling in back up. "You look different. Life on the run suits you."

"It gave me a bit've focus," admits Richard, resting his hip against the rail again as his other hand falls to his side, thumb curling into the edge of a pocket; of course, despite the words, there's a dark look in those eyes as they watch her, "Might help to know what you folks wanted with me— just curiousity, given that I didn't stick around to find out last time."

"I don't want you." Identity quirks a brow slightly, then turns back to the dance floor. "You were a job." Her posture is relaxed, despite her tone, which is less than friendly. "Interesting to see you're in New York. Chances are good we'll meet again, in a professional capacity."

"Then whoever paid you," Richard notes, a bit more firmly, a single brow crooking its way upward, "What did -they- want, then…? I'm not exactly the sort of person that enjoys being hunted like an animal— outside of the bedroom, anyway, but that's neither here nor there— and aside from the nice view, it's not exactly a pleasure to see you here either."

Identity glances over, dark eyes meeting Richard's. "Specifically, you? You're dangerous, aren't you? What you can do." She watches him for a moment, but the distaste is clear in her eyes, in the slight inflection of her tone. "Someone has to watch you, and be sure you don't hurt people."

Richard quirks a brow upwards at that. "Oh? So are you. So can you. Who's watching you, then, hot stuff?" A half-turn of his head as if searching for someone else, before his gaze - visible only over the edge of shades pushed down his nose - returns to hers, "Who watches the watchers?"

Identity smiles. It's a quiet smile, no flash of teeth. She shakes her head slightly, and says, "I have a job, I do it. I don't really care how the rest works itself out." She pushes away from the balcony rail. "I don't get paid to care."

"Now, I know that one's not true…" Richard's head cants a bit to one side, watching her move; there's just the slightest hint of appreciate there, enough to be noticed, the rest of it wariness. "…I heard that much in your voice. You don't like… us, do you?"
GAME: Save complete.

Id glances over at Richard, eyes pausing on his briefly. "No." She drops a hand to her hip. "I don't." Identity turns from Richard, hand sliding into her pocket. She removes a cellular phone, and soft beeps and boops issue as she punches some keys.

"That's fair," Richard replies as she turns away, pushing off the rail and stepping into the shadow of one of the chairs, "I don't like you, either." Then, of course, he slips into it as easily as someone else might step through a doorway - or even easier - his form fading away into the darkness.

Identity doesn't look back. She shakes her head, and continues on her way to the door. She doesn't expect him to be back there anymore anyway. She finishes up the text, then flicks the phone closed, and slides it into her pocket. "Freaks."

Of course he's not back there; he's down there, by her feet, as his incorporeal form slips from one shadow to the next to linger in her own as an unseen rider, leaving it darker and heavier - but only by a little bit.

Identity's Apartment

Identity enters the apartment and tosses her keys onto the table near the door. She runs her hands through her hair, and makes her way inside, after shoving the door closed and flipping both deadbolts and the security chain. She doesn't look at them as she does so—just habit. There's a pause before she bends to unzip her boots, kicking them off to step out of them, head to the kitchen, and check the coffee pot. Empty. She peels her shirt off, and makes her way down the hall toward the bedroom.

You know, if Richard were a man of more morals, he might start feeling guilty about the fact that women keep getting naked while he's riding their shadows; fortunately, he's amoral at best, and so he merely remains silent and watchful as she walks through the apartment.

Id tosses her shirt across the bed. She reaches back to remove the firearm in the holster at the small of her back, checking the safety before she sits down on the bed itself, slides open a drawer, and reaches in to set her cell phone inside. The firearm is slid under her pillow. If undoes the fasteners of her jeans, and stands to slide them off. The jeans are also tossed across the bottom of the bed. She walks toward the walk in closet, and pulls a purple silk robe from the hook.

Although the temptation to linger and appreciate her keen sense of fashion is there, instead he slips from her shadow to that of the bed; lingering beside it and waiting there, patient enough. Also, he can still watch her from this position, at least until she gets into the bed proper.

Id tosses her clothes and returns to bed with an iPod, earbuds in, wearing a strappy little tank top and a black thong. She tends toward slink. The dark haired agent slides into bed, sets the iPod on shuffle, and stares at the ceiling. After a beat, and reaches up, pops an ear bud out, and sits up to glance around briefly. Her hand goes under her pillow.

There's no movement or sign of any activity… of course, that's because the intruder has become one with the darkness under the bed, for the moment. Boogeyman, anyone?

Identity doesn't believe in the boogeyman. Identity doesn't cringe at strange noises in the night, and she most certainly isn't afraid of the dark. Her hand remains on the gun, and then she slides the ear bud back into her ear, and stretches out again, tipping back against her pillows.

Now, the shadow thief is patient, though it isn't endless; an hour, perhaps a little more, is all that's waited before the edge of the bed's shadow stirs, rippling silently like a still pool disturbed as a hand reaches up to slowly, carefully curl about the handle of the bed-side drawer to try and pull it open quietly. Oh no - he's after her cell phone! Imagine the bills he could rack up.

Identity's eyes are closed, and she doesn't seem to notice the very slow movement of the drawer opening. There's a chance she's asleep.

That hand carefully slips into the drawer, fingers curling about the familiar plastic lightness of a cellular phone— lifting it stealthfully from its hiding place and drawing back again. The drawer is left out, evidence, but the risk of closing it is seemingly judged too dangerous, as the hand attempts to withdraw with its prize towards the shadows once more.

Id chooses that particular moment to turn her head and open her eyes. Drawer is open. She sits up, flicks out the earbuds, weapon in hand. "Are you trying to piss me off?" She taps the barrel of the Glock against her upper thigh. "Really."

As she speaks, the hand - and cell - vanish once more into the shadows with that faint, ephemeral ripple of motion. Dead silence responds to her words.

Id glances over, into the drawer. She shakes her head, and takes a slow breath, nudging the drawer closed with her knee. "Fine." Identity steps out of the bedroom, and makes her way down the hall toward the bathroom.

An unseen presence flits from shadow to shadow as she slips out of the bedroom, taking the opportunity of the door being opened to roam into the rest of the apartment - one goal in mind now, to reach a shadow that looks out into a window so he can slip out that way. He ends up pausing in one with a good view of the hall, though, because… well, incorporeal or not, he's a guy.

When she reaches the end of the hall, Identity opens the bathroom door. She opens the bathroom door, and there's the sound of paws scrabbling over the wood. Out of the bathroom shoots a tiny animal!

Oh no, his one weakness, a… tiny dog. If he had eyes, he'd be blinking. As it is, he merely slips across the room from one pool of shadow to the other on his way out. He's got what he came for!

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